


Stitch Him Whole

by Sara_Ellison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sara_Ellison/pseuds/Sara_Ellison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sam who figures out how to heal Castiel's wounds, and Dean who realizes it might work on Sam as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place directly after the end of 8x21. Will be utterly Jossed in *checks watch* 37 minutes when 8x22 airs.

“Help me get him in the car.” They’re both moving before Dean’s finished speaking, and Sam doesn’t actually need to be told. He grabs Castiel’s legs as Dean lifts the angel’s shoulders and carefully, carefully they haul him into the backseat. Sam knows that for once, Dean couldn’t care less about getting blood on the seats of his precious Impala.

“Hey.” Dean grabs Sam’s arm and pulls, turning his brother to face him. “You said you were feeling better now. You okay to drive?” He catches Sam by the chin and holds him still, staring into his face. He frowns, clearly unhappy with what he sees. “No.” When he lets go, Sam feels his fingers leave behind stickiness on Sam’s skin. It’s Castiel’s blood.

Sam sits in the back of the car with Cas leaning heavily on him as Dean gets back behind the wheel. “You think we should take him to the hospital?” he asks. His hands are moving instinctively over Cas’ body, searching for the source of the blood. There’s a cut on his head, but it’s shallow; head wounds bleed a lot, but it’s not life-threatening. He’s hurt somewhere else.

“No,” Cas says hoarsely. “It won’t help. This wound was not made by mortal means. Human medicine won’t heal it.”

Sam finds the bullet wound low on Cas’ abdomen and presses on it, because mortal means or not, surely he can try to stop the bleeding. He has to try. He rummages with his foot for the first aid kit stashed under the passenger seat. “Isn’t your vessel damaged, though?” he asks, trying to understand. There has to be something he can do.

“It’s just a shell,” Cas says. “It will heal when I recover.” His face is ashen, and Sam’s not sure he’s ever seen Cas in this bad shape. He said _when_ , not _if_ , but Sam is scared beyond reason.

“Cas,” Dean says. His voice is tight, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. “Tell us what to do to help.”

Sam comes up with the first aid bag and a bottle of whiskey that were tucked beneath the seat. “I don’t know if you need this, but I don’t wanna take chances,” he says, uncapping the bottle. “Sorry, man, it’s gonna hurt like hell.” He pours it over the wound, and Cas hisses in pain through clenched teeth.

“I’ve had worse,” the angel grits out.

Dean chuckles, dry and humorless. “That’s my boy. You’re gonna be fine.”

Sam’s hands are shaking, but on the fifth try he manages to get the curved needle threaded. He doesn’t warn Cas about the pain; there isn’t much to do about it besides handing him the open bottle. Cas cries out at the first stab of the needle into his flesh, but as Sam pulls it through, it comes loose in his hand. Startled, he peers down at it in the dim illumination of passing streetlights. The thread ends where it enters the wound, as though it dissolved as it passed through Castiel’s body.

“I told you it wouldn’t help,” Cas says. “My Grace is wounded. You can’t just stitch that back together.”

“How, then?” Sam demands, desperate. “You can’t just bleed out on us, Cas, tell us how to fix you!”

Dean catches Sam’s eye in the rearview mirror. His face is taut with anxiety. Sam knows this must be hell for him--he loves Cas like a brother, but Dean has something more, something deeper. Sam wishes he were well enough to drive; Dean _needs_ to be the one taking care of Cas.

“I don’t know how,” Cas says. It sounds like giving up. He closes his eyes and leans against Sam. Even through all their layers of clothes, Sam can tell that the angel’s body is too cold. He wants to share his fever with Castiel and even them both out, if only such a thing were possible. He wants to pray, but he’s afraid it will be heard by the wrong ears.

He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe whatever it is that’s making him resonate around Metatron is giving him improbable knowledge about angels and Grace. Maybe he’s just read too many fairy tales when he was little. He leans down and kisses Cas on the mouth, long and gentle, like he’s breathing life into him. The angel’s lips are soft and dry, and he kisses back with the slightest pressure. It’s unexpectedly comforting, and Sam finds himself reluctant to stop, but he forces himself to.

“What’s going on back there?” Dean asks. Sam realizes he’s ducked below his line of sight in the mirror; Dean is craning his neck to try to see.

“Eyes on the road, Dean,” Cas says. “We don’t need all three of us in need of medical attention.” His voice is stronger, now; his eyes, when he looks at Sam, are brighter, and some color has come back into his face.

“Did that help?” Sam asks, hopeful and disbelieving. He checks the wound under his hand; it’s still bleeding, but the flow has slowed.

“A little,” Cas says. He straightens up, still leaning against Sam. “I think you’re on the right track, but I need more.”

Sam’s stomach does a weird sort of flip. “You need Dean,” Sam says, almost a question but not really. If another kiss from him would help, he’d be only too happy to oblige, but he’s not that naive.

“Yes,” Cas says. “It’s nothing personal, you understand, but you’ve done all you can.”

“Need me to what?” Dean says.

“Nothing you can do while you’re driving,” Cas tells him.

Dean smacks his hand off the wheel in frustration and puts his foot down. The Impala roars forward, pressing them all back into their seats for a moment.

“Dean,” Sam says, “you can’t help him if we don’t get to the bunker in one piece.”

“We’ll get there,” Dean growls. “Tell me what you did to help him.”

Sam looks to Cas, uncertain. He has a feeling Dean will react badly, but Cas nods, and Sam says reluctantly, “I kissed him.”

Dean doesn’t react badly. He doesn’t really react at all, except for adjusting his grip on the wheel. “Sorry,” he says, “just to make sure I’m not hallucinating--did you say you kissed him?”

“Yes,” Sam says. “Dean, it didn’t really mean anyth--”

“No, that’s cool,” Dean says. “It’s fine. I’m happy for you both. I just, I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“We don’t,” Cas says. “Don’t be stupid, Dean.” Sam winces--ordinarily he’d be amused by the incongruity of Cas insulting Dean, but right now he’s too anxious, his stomach tied in knots and a sour taste in his mouth. “I have no more romantic inclination towards Sam than you do,” Cas continues. “It was a gesture of affection, no more than the two of you feel for each other.”

“Okay,” Dean says, but he sounds like he doesn’t really believe it. “Whatever.”

They make it back to the bunker in record time. Castiel remains in better shape than he was when they found him, but he steadily fades and is trembling by the time they get there. Sam helps him out of the car; Cas can stand, but he leans heavily on Sam. Sam himself isn’t doing so great, but he holds the handrail as he helps Cas down the steps into the bunker. Dean looks like he wants to help, too; twice, he reaches for Cas, and pulls back without touching him.

The glances Dean keeps throwing at Sam make him think that his current fragility is the only thing stopping Dean from punching him. There’s no hatred in his eyes, just _disappointment_ , like he’s lost something precious and it’s kind of Sam’s fault. Sam wants to explain, _I’m not the one Cas needs_ , but it’s taking all his concentration to stay upright. In the library, Cas takes a shaky step away from Sam, and Sam grabs for a chair before he falls.

Cas reaches for Dean and catches a handful of his shirt. “Dean,” he says. “I need your help. Will you help me? Please.”

“Of course,” Dean says. He’s holding Cas loosely by the waist, instinctively. “What do you need?”

Cas leans in and kisses him, and Dean freezes. Sam glances away, feeling himself blush a little, but he can still see them out of the corner of his eye, and it doesn’t look right. Dean isn’t moving; he’s let go of Cas, and he isn’t kissing back, and after a moment Cas pulls away, frowning.

“Dean,” he says, “you have to kiss me. I need--I need _you_ , Dean.”

“But you kissed Sam,” Dean protests. “If you want him, then I don’t want to--to get in the way...”

“I don’t want him,” Cas says. “Not the way you mean. You’re not getting in the way of anything.”

Dean grimaces briefly and kisses Cas, a short press of closed lips. “Okay?” he says.

“I think you have to mean it,” Sam puts in quietly. “I helped him with a--a gesture of affection. He needs that from you, he needs to experience what you feel for him. Kiss him like you love him, for God’s sake.”

“Do you love me, Dean?” Cas asks, for all the world like he doesn’t know. Maybe he really doesn’t, but Sam struggles to understand how any two people can be so blind.

Dean lets out a slow breath, his eyes closing, and leans in to kiss Castiel, his lips parted and gentle. His hands come up to frame the angel’s face, and Sam has to look away because _that’s_ a kiss. Cas makes a soft noise of contentment, and Sam gives them a moment, long enough for Cas to heal, but if they forget he’s here it will get awkward, so he clears his throat.

“Did that help?” Dean asks softly. His hands are still holding Castiel’s face, running his thumbs over the angel’s cheekbones, and their eyes are locked together like magnets.

“Yes,” Cas says. He pulls his shirt up; there’s still blood smeared on his skin, but where the wound was is only smooth, unbroken skin. Dean touches him there, running his fingers along Cas’ flank.

“I guess that’s how you heal an angel’s Grace,” Sam says. “With love.”

“Sam?” Dean says, not looking at him. “Go away.”

“Dean,” Sam replies. “Trust me when I say I have never meant this so sincerely before in my life: _get a room_.”

“I agree with Sam,” Cas says.

“You’re sure you’re okay now?” Dean asks. “That really healed you?”

“Yes, I am okay,” Cas answers. “I will prove it to you, when we get a room. And if you’re still not sure, you can always kiss me again.”

Dean grins and takes Castiel’s hand, leading him away towards Dean’s bedroom. “Hey, Sammy,” he says over his shoulder, “yell if you need anything. Please don’t need anything.”

“Okay,” Sam says, laughing a little, and trying very hard not to think about his brother having sex with Cas.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started writing this, it was going to just be Destiel, but...I wrote it from Sam's perspective, and it felt rude not to include him.

Sam drags himself off to bed when it becomes clear that Dean and Cas aren’t going to break for dinner or emerge from Dean’s room for any reason tonight. He undresses gingerly, feeling far more exhausted than he has any right to. His shirt is stained with Castiel’s blood from when the angel leaned against him, and he’s too wrung out to even attempt to clean it right now. He drops it in the bathroom sink to soak overnight; it’s the most he’s capable of. By the time he showers and climbs into bed, he feels strangely like crying.

It’s taken him a long time to adjust to not sleeping in the same room as Dean; it always does, and he never sleeps well. He’s awake and alert, sitting up and reaching for a weapon as soon as his door creaks open, spilling in a faint wash of light from somewhere down the hallway. He’s tense, ready to fight whatever’s invading his living space, but more than anything else he’s _annoyed_. He really, really needs his sleep right now.

He relaxes when he sees Dean’s silhouette framed in the doorway. Dean is probably the one person in the world he can forgive for waking him up, although Sam can tell it’s still the dead of night, and it’s beyond him right now to guess what he could possibly want, unless Cas has taken a turn for the worse--and suddenly the tension is back. “Is Cas okay?” he blurts, and it’s a mark of how much of a toll this Trials-induced illness has taken that he didn’t think of it immediately.

“He’s fine,” Dean says, sounding a little confused. Sam can’t make out his face in the darkness. “I was just coming to see if you were still up.”

“I am now,” Sam mutters. “Asshole.”

“Sorry,” Dean says.

Sam blinks. He was expecting a smart remark; it’s not like Dean to just apologize like that. He’s still standing there in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Dude,” Sam says. “What?”

“I just,” Dean says, stepping forward into the room proper. “I was thinking. This thing, the Trials, what they’re doing to you--it’s not something Cas can cure, he said. So I was thinking, what if it was like his deal? With his Grace, that he couldn’t just heal like a normal wound. Maybe...maybe you need the same kind of cure.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah. Lemme know when you find my one true love, so she can French me back to health.”

Dean sits heavily on the edge of Sam’s bed. “I’m not laughing,” he snaps. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to see you survive the last fucking Trial. I’m willing to try anyfuckingthing at this point.”

“Okay,” Sam says, placating. “What do you suggest?” Dean is silent for a long moment and Sam rolls his eyes. “If it was worth waking me up in the middle of the night, it damn well better be worth saying,” he says.

“Okay,” Dean says. “I was thinking. You kissed Cas and it helped a little, right? So maybe we don’t need to find your one and only, you know, maybe we just need someone who cares about you to...give you a gesture of affection. And maybe it will help a little, maybe it’ll be enough to get you through this.”

Sam shakes his head “It’s a nice thought,” he says slowly, “but I already kissed Cas, and it doesn’t seem to have made a difference.”

“I asked him,” Dean says. “He said it’s because he’s an angel. He said he couldn’t heal you--it has to be a human, apparently, because angels don’t feel love in the same ways--I don’t know, he got kind of metaphysical at that point, explaining it, but the gist is that it would have helped if he were human.”

“Okay,” Sam says, “then, who else is there?”

Dean clears his throat, and it hits Sam suddenly, the reason for the awkward weight-shifting and extended pauses. Sam feels lightheaded, disconnected, like he’s stumbled into a dream world where things disappear when you stop looking at them, and he stares hard at Dean in the darkness until his eyes hurt so he doesn’t vanish. “Oh,” he hears himself say, distantly. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay?” Dean repeats, voice cracking with eager disbelief.

Sam fights the disconnectedness to remember how to move, how to lean forward and reach for Dean. He notices that his body is trembling finely, from the fever--the one from the Trials, or the one from the idea of kissing his brother on his bed in the dark. His hands fist in the worn cotton of Dean’s t-shirt; Dean’s palms come up to cup Sam’s face, framing it the same way he’d held Cas’, and then Dean’s mouth is on his, warm and soft and damp.

Sam kisses back, reining in his impulses; his lips are slightly parted, in defiance of his desire to open his mouth under his brother’s and really taste him. He tries his damnedest to kiss Dean like he kissed Cas, but his body is humming and his dick is hard in his lap. Then Dean shifts closer and thrusts his tongue between Sam’s lips, and Sam can’t hold back a moan as he responds with enthusiasm.

When they break for air, Sam realizes that his hands are under Dean’s t-shirt, stroking over his bare skin; his own shirt is bunched up around his neck, his arms out of the sleeves, and he doesn’t remember trying to take it off. Clearly, he was foiled by his reluctance to stop kissing Dean. “Wow,” he breathes.

“Um. Did that help?” Dean asks, unaccountably anxious. “How do you feel?”

“I feel pretty damn good right now,” Sam confesses. “But maybe just to be sure we should do that again.”

Dean laughs. “You’re such a girl,” he says, pulling Sam’s bunched-up shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor.

Sam grabs Dean’s hand and presses it to his crotch. “Do I feel like a girl to you?” he says, gratified to see Dean’s eyes widen at what he feels.

“The line,” Dean says, slightly hoarsely. “That’s a girly-ass thing to say. ‘Try again just to be sure.’”

“Cheesy lines aren’t gendered, Dean,” Sam replies. “And I’m serious about kissing you again.”

“I noticed,” Dean says, and gives Sam’s cock a squeeze as he leans in again, making Sam gasp into his mouth.

“I wasn’t lying,” Cas says from the doorway, making Sam jump and accidentally bite Dean’s tongue. “I admit my phrasing was deliberately misleading, when I said I had no more romantic inclination towards Sam than you do to each other. I was relying on the knowledge that you two had not yet realized the extent of your feelings. I needed Dean to kiss me, and I knew that he would be unwilling if he was feeling jealous.”

Sam blinks at him. It’s hard to process words when Dean is in his lap, somehow shirtless now too (and Sam is at a loss to explain how he managed that), shifting slightly against him and proving very distracting to higher brain function. Nor does it help that Cas is standing there stark naked and beautiful with his hair all tousled from the sex he’s had with Dean. “Um,” Sam articulates.

“So,” Dean says, “when you suggested I go kiss my brother and see if it helped, you knew this was gonna happen? You knew Sam wanted me like this.”

“Yes,” Cas says, all canary-eating cat.

“Um,” Sam elaborates. “Go back to the part about your romantic inclinations towards me?”

“I know your feelings for me are more than platonic,” Cas says. “I know you didn’t want to _get in the way_ of me and Dean.” He does finger quotes.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “And also,” he’s finding it hard to think with Dean sucking on his neck, “when I kissed you, it didn’t help as much as Dean-- _fuck_.” He loses his train of thought as Dean bites down on his collarbone.

“That’s a really good idea,” Dean says contemplatively, lifting himself off Sam’s lap to wriggle out of his underwear. “What do you think, Cas? Don’t you think fucking is a good idea?”

“Yes,” Cas agrees. “And your kiss helped more than you think, Sam. Whether you were aware of your feelings at the time or not, I’d say you healed my Grace halfway when you kissed me. Dean did the rest.” He sits down on the bed and helps Dean pull Sam’s boxers off, then ducks down and, with no warning, wraps his mouth around Sam’s cock.

“ _Holy fuck_ ,” Sam says, instinctively grabbing a handful of Cas’ hair and trying not to fly off the bed.

“Isn’t he great?” Dean says, grinning. “How fucking incredible is his mouth?”

Sam whimpers in response, his eyes sliding shut in sheer bliss. Cas’ mouth is hot and wet, his tongue curling around the head of Sam’s cock before he slides down, taking him deep. Sam’s body is quivering, his toes curling, and all the stress and desperation of the past few weeks is coalescing into an urgent need for release.

“Careful,” Dean murmurs from somewhere close. “Don’t overcook him, we need him to last.”

Cas pulls off, and Sam whines, aching with disappointment. He opens his eyes in time to see the shit-eating grin wiped from Dean’s face as Cas delivers a brutal swipe of his tongue to the underside of Dean’s cock. “Oh, God,” he chokes, “Cas, you’re _evil_.”

“I enjoy the taste of your skin, Dean,” Cas says, sitting up. “But right now, I would like to watch you ride Sam.”

“Yes please,” Sam says. He takes Dean by the hips as he shifts back into Sam’s lap, straddling him. Dean wraps a hand around Sam’s cock to hold him still and sinks down onto him in one smooth motion. “Ohmyholymotherfuckingshit,” Sam utters, and if he’d thought Cas’ mouth was good, it’s _nothing_ compared to being buried in the tight, slick heat of his brother’s body, sunk deep like King Arthur couldn’t pull him out.

“Okay?” Dean asks, as though it’s even possible for Sam to feel anything even remotely less than fantastic right now.

“Yeah,” Sam manages. “Jesus. I should be asking you that, I mean you--you just--” He gestures vaguely, lost for words. “I thought you’d need some lube, or something...”

Dean exchanges a look with Cas, who’s wearing as close to a smirk as Sam has ever seen on him. “Um,” he says. “Kinda still a little wet from before.”

Sam’s brain stutters over the realization that that’s _Cas_ making Dean slide so smoothly when he lifts himself up and sinks back down, impaling himself--that’s the angel’s come slicking him up inside so he can ride Sam like a bull in a rodeo. Sam grabs Cas and kisses him, hard, the way he wanted to kiss him in the car, tongue-tangling and lip-biting and electric. He moans, helplessly; Dean is clenching around him, murmuring appreciative noises, his lips wet against Sam’s neck, and Cas is an irresistible force.

He wants to thrust up into Dean, but he has no leverage in this position. He can do nothing but let Dean ride him to completion, steady and unrelenting. Sam’s orgasm rolls over him like a tidal wave, sudden and overwhelming; he cries out his pleasure and the sound is swallowed by Cas, or Dean--he can’t tell which of them is kissing him at each individual moment. He thinks of his seed mingling with Cas’ inside Dean and pulses harder within him.

“Sammy,” Dean groans. He keeps up his rhythm until Sam softens and slips out of him. “You get a pass this time,” he says. “Due to your recent illness, and all. Any other time I’d be mocking you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam pants. “Sorry.” He wraps a hand around Dean’s cock, making him gasp and thrust up into Sam’s fist.

“Don’t apologize,” Cas says, moving to kneel behind Dean. “We are both glad to have given you pleasure. Stamina is not an issue.” He grips Dean by the hips, pulling him up off Sam’s lap so he’s kneeling, straddling Sam’s thighs.

“I _said_ any other time,” Dean says. He leans his head back, resting on Cas’ shoulder and exposing the pale column of his throat. Sam wants to kiss it, suck it, leave a mark, but he can’t reach and his legs are trapped under them both, so he settles for kissing Dean’s chest as Cas slides into him from behind.

Cas’ first thrust jolts Dean forward, drawing a cry from him. Sam sits back, his hand working Dean’s cock as Cas sets a grueling pace, pounding into Dean like he’s being paid for it. It’s like having a front-row seat to the best porno ever; if Sam had more energy, if he didn’t have these damned Trials and hadn’t just come, he’d be rock-hard from the sight of Cas fucking Dean.

“Oh God, Cas,” Dean moans, and he sounds absolutely wrecked. “Sammy, _fuck_.” He’s close, moaning with every breath. “Gonna come soon,” he pants, like they couldn’t tell. “Sam, I’m gonna come on you.”

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says lowly, “come all over me.” He tightens his grip, sweeping his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock, and Dean cries out and comes hard, spurting over Sam’s chest. Behind him, Cas gives a sharp grunt and stills, then pumps his hips once, twice more into Dean before burying his face in the crook of Dean’s neck.

“God,” Dean breathes. He sags, deflating, and Cas helps him to lie down beside Sam, where he curls up against Sam’s flank, one knee over Sam’s.

“He gets cuddly after sex,” Cas comments, bending down to lick at Sam’s abdomen where Dean’s come lies sticky on his skin.

“Shut up, I do not,” Dean says, nuzzling Sam’s shoulder.

Sam laughs and kisses Cas, tasting Dean on his lips. “Whatever you say,” he says affably.

“How are you feeling?” Cas asks him. “Was my theory valid?”

“ _Your_ theory?” Sam repeats, eyebrows raised. “Dean made it sound like it was his idea.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, that’s Sam. Completely back to normal.”

Sam shrugs, grinning. “It could be the sex talking, but I can’t find anything to complain about right now.”


End file.
